


Morning Light

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:58:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John wake up together, the warm morning light streaming in and enveloping them both in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Light

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, his lashes pulling apart and exposing the blurry view before him. He could make out a flesh colored lump in front of him, gently rising and falling, just inches away from his nose. 

The man could feel the warmth from John’s glowing skin, his own nerves igniting as he stretched out his long limbs. He awoke, the blood shooting through his veins with delight, the trapped heat from the white sheets enveloping him and coaxing him out of his numb, sleep invested body.

As Sherlock woke, his tender skin blushing into liveliness, he discovered that the lump beside him was also rousing.

John hummed, the sound of dreams still on his lips. 

His muscled back and round shoulders flexed with his shift, the friction in the sheets making a beautiful rustling noise.

Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow, his dark brown curls fluffing in the morning breeze. The bedroom window was open, the dewey sunlight streaming in like angels, landing in striped patterns across John’s partially covered form.

The natural light warmed Sherlock’s bare shoulders as well, his pale, delicate skin exposed to the breath of the new world as it greeted the two men, gently prodding at the sensitive parts of their eyelids.

"John," Sherlock cooed, his legs squirming beneath the pure sheet, prodding John’s padded heel.

The detective felt the nerves in his face tighten as he pulled his countenance into a smile, his high cheekbones and long nose contorting in his obvious joy. He was completely at peace, his love beside him, the quiet morning air tickling his bare arms. 

John’s ears poised at the echoing, low grumble of Sherlock’s voice calling his name. He began to open his eyes now. He was met with a beautifully decorated room, just beyond the numb tips of his fingers which dangled off the edge of the bed.

As he was bringing his sensitive surfaces back to life, his empty hand was met by Sherlock’s slender fingers. The detective intertwined around John as best he could from his raised position, his right hand still supporting his cocked head.

John filled the space that Sherlock had tenderly left open with a slow movement of his hand, and with one “Good morning” squeeze, he turned body towards his fiance. 

The men were powerless as they were caught in each other’s gaze, their eyes meeting for the first time on this blessed day. John counted the orange flecks in Sherlock’s light green eyes which were ablaze with the morning sun rays. His thick brows raised slightly when John darted his gaze down to Sherlock’s pink mouth, perfectly poised in a plump heart, ready to receive a tender kiss at any second.

Sherlock, in turn, delved into the darkness of John’s deep emerald, as well as his worn and wrinkled face. The bags under his eyes from a lifetime of sorrow and fighting were anything but repelling to Sherlock, and he soaked in the wondrous sight. Each freckle and imperfection in John’s skin were the stars and galaxies to Sherlock, and he was lost stargazing.

"Good morning," John responded with a roll of his tongue, his mouth creaking with the new noise. His breath crackled as it rose from its slumber. Although John’s throat was a tad sore from the unaccustomed moaning and howling that he’d created the night before, his small voice creeped up to say hello.

Sherlock was coated in happiness at this sight, this slightly smiling, handsome man, whose body moved into his, seeking his protection. This man was his for longer than the fleeting moment it took for Sherlock to convince himself of saying what he whispered next.

He had nothing to fear, he knew that his words weren’t vague and empty. If John were to say what needn’t be spoken, Sherlock’s phrase would be met with the same intent.

"I love you, John," he cooed, the man melting into his form and sinking into all the places that had once been empty with a small nuzzle.  
Sherlock’s arms held the world: the warm body of the man he was blessed to spend the rest of his life with.


End file.
